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I just got home from a night at an amazing old homestead in the Wairarapa, where, like Mrs Havisham’s cavernous abode in Great Expectations, time stands still. The mist could hide a hundred Magwitches, and the stable (and carriage) is straight from Pip’s blacksmith childhood. Why is it that to me, everything old seems instantly British, and everything British seems instantly Dickensian? I blame it on the colonial-hangover New Zealanders just can’t shake, tempered with my geeky bookishness. Exhibit B? My description of the wallpaper as “totally Elvish”. And I meant it entirely as a good thing. Sadly no interior pictures were allowed.